


I'll Run (Run To You)

by belasteals



Series: ASoIaF/Greek Mythology Fusion [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:05:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7259302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belasteals/pseuds/belasteals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You would rather marry a lowborn knight than a high lord, then?”<br/>She grinned, all bared teeth and sharp eyes. “I’d rather marry no one at all, else I'd not play at this mummer’s farce.”<br/>“What about the man who outruns you?”<br/>“Nobody outruns me.”</p><p>(Greek mythology fusion: Arya as Atalanta, Gendry as Hippomenes. Arya vows only to marry the man who can outrun her in a footrace)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Run (Run To You)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Run To You" by Pentatonix

The princess certainly cut a striking figure, clad in hunting leathers with a fine fur cape slung across her back. Her dark hair was braided over one shoulder, a few stray hairs framing a long face and striking grey eyes. She was smaller than he expected – he guessed she was a head shorter than him, mayhaps more – but slender and long of limb, displaying the sort of grace associated more with a warrior than a noblewoman. A dagger and horn hung at one hip, a sheathed sword at the other, and her bow and quiver lay at her feet. A massive wolf, near as large as any horse with thick grey fur and deep golden eyes, sat silently at her side. Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill had never seen such a beast before.

She stood impassively to the left of her father, barely deigning to glance at the handful of men standing before her. The wolf, however, looked at them with its unnerving eyes. He had the distinct impression that he was being sized up – probably as prey.

Lord Eddard Stark rose, and the men before him fell to their knees.

“My lords, honored knights, sons of Westeros. You have come to present your petitions for the hand of my daughter, Lady Arya of House Stark. As the men before you have done, you have accepted the conditions of participating in a contest of my daughter’s choosing, to compete for the honor of her hand in marriage. You agree to leave Winterfell and drop your petition should you lose this challenge.”

“Aye, my lord,” the men said in unison.

“Should you win, you will wed the Lady Arya in a fortnight in the godswood of Winterfell, before the eyes of the old gods. These are the terms.”

Lady Arya looked at them coldly, her face revealing no hint of emotion. “You will face the same challenge as my other suitors; a simple footrace. If you can outrun me, we shall wed.” The barest shade of a smile ghosted over her lips. No man had ever outrun Arya Stark.

Lord Eddard continued. “You will be fed and housed as the guests of House Stark during your stay here. One competition will occur each day, at high noon. You will be summoned on the day of your challenge.” The lord looked out over the men, a dozen young lordlings, upstart knights, and second sons hoping for the chance to tame the younger Stark girl. “You are dismissed.”

One by one, the men bowed to Lord Eddard and Lady Arya, and Gendry followed them out of the hall.

 

~~~~~

 

Lady Arya was not at the feast that night, though her parents and younger brothers were. Lord Eddard spoke most of the night with the old maester at his side, but Gendry could feel Lady Catelyn’s disapproving stare from the high table. The elder of the two brothers present, nearly a man at five-and-ten, sat solemnly beside his mother. The younger laughed uproariously with a dark-haired girl, whom the men whispered was to be his betrothed by the end of the month.

There were other siblings, he knew; an elder brother visiting with some Northern lord or another, and a sister sent south to Highgarden near two years ago. There was a bastard brother as well, serving at the Wall. The men of King’s Landing had said he was the shame of House Stark, until Lady Arya refused to wed.

There were whispers about her throughout the Seven Kingdoms, from the Last Hearth to Saltshore. In the North, they called her a daughter of the wolfswood, a girl bred of winter with the wilderness in her heart and wolf’s blood in her veins. The bards of the Riverlands spun tales of a fierce huntress and her maiden companions, decked in leather and hunting more than deer in the dead of the night. The southroners spoke of a savage child, dishonoring her lord father with rejected proposals and broken betrothals, but the southroners flocked to Winterfell just the same for a chance at winning her hand and taming a wolf princess.

Gendry excused himself from the feast, breathing in the crisp evening air as the doors of the keep closed behind him. It was still summer, but a thin blanket of snow coated the ground and crunched beneath his boots.

He had meant to only wander the grounds for a short while, but the unfamiliar castle and pale moonlight played tricks on his eyes, and he found himself hopelessly lost in mere minutes. Stone walls turned to fir trees; fir trees turned to bone-white weirwoods, the snow spotted with bloody pools of their red leaves.

“Winterfell is a long way to travel for a southron knight,” said a voice behind him.

Gendry spun, groping for his sword, and Lady Arya laughed. “I’d have had three arrows through you by now, ser, and my direwolf would feast on your entrails.” The huge wolf at her side growled softly, but the lady placed a hand on its scruff. “Hush now, Nymeria. I jest. Mother would be terribly put out if you ate one of our guests.”

Up close, Gendry could see that the woman was barely more than a girl – a maid of sixteen, for all her fire and noble birth. Her grey eyes were pale pools of silver in the moonlight, and her hair had come loose from its braid to tumble in thick curls down her back.

“You didn’t answer my question, ser knight.”

He met her gaze. “You didn’t ask one, m’lady.”

She narrowed her eyes: in irritation or amusement, he couldn’t tell. “I’ll rephrase it, then. What brings a lowborn southron knight to Winterfell?”

“Your hand, m’lady, same as the rest.”

“You’re hardly a match for a Stark of Winterfell.” Her words were harsh, but there was no acid in her tone, only honesty.

“The terms of your challenge make no mention of high birth or noble standing, m’lady.”

“No, they do not.” She looked at him for a long moment, silver eyes meeting blue. Then she sat, crossing her legs before her, and motioned for him to do the same. He looked warily at the direwolf beside her, and she laughed again. “Nymeria won’t eat you. Not while I’m here. Down, girl,” and the wolf sat. Gendry joined them, her laugh echoing like bells in the empty godswood.

“The men who used to come to Winterfell for my hand were highborn, heirs to large houses and great holdings. They come no more.”

“Why not?” Her eyes seemed to be working a spell; his courtesies were forgotten for curiosity.

“High lords run the same as common men. I outran them all, and they come no longer.”

“You would rather marry a lowborn knight than a high lord, then?”

She grinned, all bared teeth and sharp eyes. “I’d rather marry no one at all, else I'd not play at this mummer’s farce.”

“What about the man who outruns you?”

“Nobody outruns me.” She glanced away for a moment, her gaze finding the red grin of the heart tree. “My lady mother’s patience wears thin, but my father will indulge my little games. I remind him of his dead sister, so he lets me do as I wish. My siblings have made good matches, and one wild child of five will not tarnish the Stark name forever.”

She looked back at him, eyes sharp. “You aren’t here because you think you can outrun me.”

“No, m’lady. Better men than me have tried.”

“Why are you here, Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill?”

Golden direwolf’s eyes, silver girl’s eyes. “Curiosity. There are queer whispers of you in the south, and I wished to see the truth of them for myself.”

“And what do you see?”

He paused, but refused to break her gaze. “A girl and her wolf, hiding from a feast.”

The look she gave him could have almost been a smile and she rose to her feet, sinking into a half-curtsey. “Most observant. Good night, Ser Gendry.”

“Good night, m’lady.”

 

~~~~~

 

The next day at high noon, a pimple-faced Frey nearly twentieth in the line of succession lost by eight paces.

He found her in the godswood again that night. “A race well run, m’lady.”

“A clumsy fool who will spit on my name all the way back to the Twins.” Her furs were dark grey tonight, her tunic silver to match her eyes.

“Only a fool would spit on the name of House Stark, m’lady.”

She dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “Men spit on the name of House Stark from the Wall to Dorne. In the south, they say I’ll not marry because I’ve taken my wolf as a lover.”

“In the south, they say you hunt men for sport. Perchance they may be misinformed.”

She threw her head back and laughed, deeper and longer than before, and Gendry realized he loved the sound.

 

~~~~~

 

The next day at high noon, a hedge knight from the Reach lost by four and a half paces.

“You know so many fun rumors about me, good ser. Tell me about yourself.”

He told her how he was born in Flea Bottom, how he trained as a smith before joining the city guard for want of coin, how he earned his knighthood fighting bandits and mountain men across the Riverlands and the Vale. He told her of his mother, even though it felt queer to discuss her with a girl he barely knew.

“She sounds a good woman.”

“Aye, they say she was.”

 

~~~~~

 

The next day at high noon, an upstart sellsword who Lady Catelyn nearly sent away lost by five paces.

They lay in the godswood and mapped constellations across the stars.

 

~~~~~

 

The next day at high noon, a Dornish lordling with a honeyed tongue lost by only two paces, and Gendry could see the worry and relief on Lady Arya’s face during the last few moments.

She told him to stop calling her “m’lady.”

“I’m no lady, not the kind my mother wants me to be, or I would have married long ago.”

“What kind of lady do you want to be?”

She grinned, and it was kinder this time than it had been the first night. “A maiden huntress of the songs, guarding the wolfswood and serving the old gods.”

He hadn’t known what to say to that, so he bid her good night.

 

~~~~~

 

The next day at high noon, he was summoned.

“Ser Gendry,” she greeted him, her voice betraying none of the warmth he had found in it during their godswood outings.

“Lady Arya.” He bowed deeply to her. She was dressed simply, in worn breeches and a soft tunic, her hair braided tightly to keep it out of her face. She was barefoot, despite the dusting of snow still on the ground. One of her companions, a stout girl with a bear emblazoned on her chest, passed her a water skin as she stretched out her legs.

A small crowd gathered off to the side, as it did every day; the remaining men waiting for their summons, the people of Winterfell, her solemn-faced brother and his two crannogmen companions, the youngest brother and his lady. Lady Catelyn stood apart, her lips pressed together in disapproval. Lord Eddard stood before them, a formidable figure in deep grey furs with a massive greatsword strapped to his back.

“On my count.”

Lord Eddard began to count down, and the world fell silent to Gendry. He leaned over slightly, and pressed something into Arya’s hand. “A promise,” he whispered, and her father called, “Begin.”

Gendry ran.

He had no expectation to win. Arya was smaller, lighter, a great deal faster on her feet; he was still built like a smith, muscled more in his upper body than his legs. His stride was longer, but she closed the distance in moments, flying past him on feet that barely seemed to touch the ground.

Then she stopped.

He nearly lost his footing in surprise; she was less than a step away from the finish, and he was a long five paces back, heavy feet thudding against the soft ground. Arya looked down at the object in her hand. It was smaller than her palm, a finely crafted steel arrowhead shining brightly under the midday sun. Carefully etched into the side was the rough likeness of a wolf, howling up at the stars.

Gendry forced himself to stop beside her, neither willing to cross the line. Her eyes met his – in daylight, they were not pools of silver, but stormclouds.

“What is this?” she said softly.

“A promise,” he replied, “for a girl and her wolf. For a huntress guarding the wolfswood and serving her gods.”

She looked at him in silence. He was aware of shouting somewhere behind him, of voices calling out in anger and confusion, but he only heard hers.

“Well, go on then.”

 

~~~~~

 

There were whispers about them throughout the Seven Kingdoms, from the Last Hearth to Saltshore. In the North, they spoke of the girl wolf and her lover, ghosts in the wolfswood with laughter echoing from their lips. The bards of the Riverlands spun tales of a baseborn knight taming a fierce huntress, ‘til they both turned to wolves and ran off into the night. The southroners talked about a woman, beautiful and wild and deadly, and the man who won her heart in a footrace.

In the wolfswood, Arya ran, and Gendry ran with her.


End file.
